A Foolish Wind Read online

‘He’s the one who wanted to see the witch.’ Griff jabbed at the air with a finger. ‘Not you. Not me. Him.’

  Tamulan shook his head. ‘A seer, not a witch. A keeper of dreams, and the only one in all the near-lands at that.’ Griff’s face went as purple as a grape. He pressed the padded shoulder-rest to his armpit and started after the mare, hurling obscenities at the druid as he went.

  ‘Let it go,’ Tamulan told him. ‘It’ll find its own way back to the farm.’

  ‘Find its way into a pot, more like.’ The innkeeper came to a sudden halt in the middle of the road. ‘My fire-lance?’

  ‘I’m not swimmin’ about in there,’ Brae told him and wiped his dirty hands in his trousers. ‘Where are you goin’ now?’

  ‘Home is where we’re goin’.’

  ‘No we’re not.’ The druid stepped past him and out into the path of an oncoming waggon.

  Vaspar Gendrick led his men into the bustling streets of Randor, their first call, the barber shop. The three-story brick building stood at the apex of a V-shaped bifurcation in the road and offered unrivalled views of who came and went on Jerrals’ Bridge. Its half-glazed front door opened before the riders managed a full stop, its owner stepping onto the flagstone pavement carrying a jug of hot, soapy water and a badger-hair brush. The man was tall and wore a handlebar moustache that was pointed at the tips, held that way with a twist of grooming wax.

  ‘What news have you?’ Gendrick asked. The barber was his eyes when not in the city, his meticulous observations earning him a regular addition to his income. He gave an overview of the week’s sightings, hushing to let people pass, doffing his hat politely to the ladies. A older man stood behind the barber, carving a shank for a tobacco-pipe. He held the bore of the shank to the light, tapped it on a raised knee and peered through it again.

  ‘They say Taenon saw the druid.’

  ‘They?’ Gendrick asked quickly, a touch of apprehension bringing a musical rise and fall to the word.

  ‘Jopha.’ The man smiled a toothless smile, turned and went inside, the door banging closed behind him, its bell tinkling and drawing attention to them.

  ‘Find the witch,’ Gendrick ordered two of the hirelings, ‘and take her to the keep.’ The men dismounted immediately and handed their reins to one of the other riders. He pointed to a third. ‘Tell the wolf-man I seek his company.’ He saw the immediate reluctance in the man’s demeanour. ‘Take someone with you.’

  Snake clicked each gloved knuckle in turn as he watched the men set off on foot. ‘This complicates things.’

  Gendrick couldn’t disagree. He’d known of course that the druid would arrive at some point—but so soon—that was completely unexpected.

  ‘You think the dream-keeper warned him?’ Snake asked.

  The minister leaned in his saddle, his voice hushed and conspiratorial. He nodded. ‘Just as she showed me the one with the firemark stain.’

  ‘Time to get off,’ the young farmer told them as he pulled up next to the barber shop. ‘No-one’s gonna want to buy that lot if they catch sight of your arses all over it.’

  Brae thanked the man for the ride and went to help his brother off the back of the vegetable cart. ‘I’m not a cripple,’ Griff said pulling his arm away. ‘Get yourself off and change that book.’ Brae left him to struggle and stepped onto the busy pavement, disappearing almost completely in the the throng of the passing crowd.

  ‘Meet us at the Fountain of the Dancin’ Lady,’ Griff called after him. ‘On the third bell and no later mind you.’ Brae raised his hand in acknowledgement and a moment later was gone from sight.

  The city was rich in culture and opportunity, home to the most prestigious university in any of the near-lands. ‘What are the students carrying?’ Tamulan asked as a small group hurried by, their arms bent with colourful costumes and party-masques.

  Griff frowned. ‘Winter’s Day Festival.’

  ‘University tradition is all,’ the farmer told them with the briefest of chuckles.

  ‘Bad luck is what it’ll bring,’ the innkeeper said. ‘You mark my words.’

  Chapter

  — 6 —

  Elba Doss stood alone in the open atrium of the public library and stared at the bookshelves all around him. He sighed and then groaned deeply. Some of the works were tomes as thick as museum doorsteps, while others fit snuggly in their readers’ pockets. The richest of reds and the deepest of blues. Several finished with elaborate gold-block lettering, a few, just single sheets of ancient parchment, rolled and secured with neat, ribbon bows. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for such places—far from it—as custodian of university literature, he’d spent most of his adult life there, cataloguing and keeping its contents safe for future generations of scholars. Doss lowered his eyes and sighed again, the cause of his angst, a book that he knew couldn’t possibly be sat upon one of his shelves. “A special book,” Lord Gendrick had called it, and one that should be delivered only to him. But that wasn’t all the minister expected in exchange for turning a blind eye to his indiscretions. Gendrick also required the name of the one who could read it.

  The custodian’s train of thought was broken by the arrival of a female student. The girl was extremely pretty and youthfully impatient. ‘Quantity?’ he asked, not bothering to hide his irritation. He took a small, flat key from his trouser pocket and opened the left-hand drawer of his desk.

  ‘Three.’ The student checked over her shoulder, arms gripping her abdomen tightly. Doss presented his hand and lowered it again when he found payment not forthcoming. Even without sight of him, she could feel his eyes creeping slowly over every exposed inch of her. She closed the heavy robe tight across her ample chest and saw Doss return the round, white pills to a brown, glass jar. She grabbed at his arm as he shut the drawer and turned the key. ‘I have a shillbob and no more.’ Her voice was shrill with desperation, the shiny coin offered in a sweaty palm.

  ‘Master Gallish no longer pays well?’ The custodian moved closer; ran a cold finger along the girl’s jawline and let it wind a curl of her red hair. ‘I guess you are last year’s stock after all.’ He lifted her dimpled chin and ran the coarse skin of his thumb along her bottom lip. She flinched at his touch and pulled away when he stepped closer. ‘New term, new stock,’ he whispered cruelly.

  The girl looked for a fleeting moment as though she might say something, and then did. ‘I don’t—’ she began.

  Doss reached for the clasp of her robe. ‘Oh, but you do,’ he said leading the way into his office, closing the door tight behind them.

  The city was awash with the flotsam of everyday life, people milling from one busy establishment to the next. Griff floated along with everyone else, blissfully ignorant of the interest being shown towards them from the window of the nearby barber-shop.

  Tamulan stepped in front of a man who wore the seafaring clothes of a Southsider, together with a week’s worth of facial hair. The sailor sidestepped and repeated the manoeuvre when his way was blocked for a second time. The druid rested a hand on the man’s shoulder, apologising for his clumsy behaviour while the Southsider went about checking each of his pockets in turn. Content he hadn’t been robbed, he opened the shop door and disappeared inside with little more than a cursory nod. The makings of a binding was made, a single strand of hair—weak but usable. He rejoined Griff on the threshold of the neighbouring apothecary and used the binding to commandeer the mind of the unknowing sailor.

  ‘What did you do to him?’ Griff asked, whistling through his teeth when he got no answer. He leaned against the glass-panelled window, reading labels on bottles of multi-coloured lotions and potions. Newt Bile. ‘A Cure for Awkward Dispositions,’ one such label explained unhelpfully. He read another, this one large enough to show a sketch of a handsome gentleman sporting a companion on each arm. Irresistibubble. ‘Shampoo for the Ladies’ Man.’ Griff ran a hand over his bald scalp and sighed.

  The barber wasn’t gifted, of that Tamulan was quite sure. But now that they
shared the same room, he sensed the man to be in possession of higher level intuition than most normal folk. The barber craned his neck and watched a one-legged war veteran speak with a hooded man.

  The Southsider sat in an empty reclining-chair and tucked a white towel into his shirt-collar. ‘What’s got your attention?’

  ‘Thought I saw someone.’ He turned away from the window and made swirls in a soap-dish. ‘My mistake.’

  The sailor placed both hands on the armrests of his chair, head raised and ready for a shave. ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘I said I was mistaken.’ The barber lay the soap-dish on a narrow shelf and opened a new packet of blades. He fastened the steel foil to a solid silver handle, its sharp edge cutting easily through the sunlight, reflecting onto several surfaces all at once. He gave both ends of his moustache a quick tweak and approached, dish and razor in hand.

  ‘I’m sure you see all sorts out there?’

  The barber soaped the Southsider’s face, giving nothing away, intuition warning him not to. He pressed the razor to the offered cheek and for a brief swipe of the hand, Tamulan saw a clear image of Vaspar Gendrick waiting on the pavement outside. The barber transferred soap and whiskers to a clean cloth, the vision wiped away with the waste. Next, the blade followed the contours of the sailor’s chin, Tamulan able to hear Gendrick’s spoken words. Again, the barber put foil to cloth, the voices silenced.

  Tamulan knew already that he couldn’t save the Southsider, that the man’s fate had been sealed with the very first question he’d asked. ‘And why does Lord Gendrick seek the one with the firemark stain?’

  There was no reason to not answer, for dead men tell no tales. ‘The boy can summon the wind,’ the barber said moving the razor slowly. ‘And read from the Book of Demons.’

  ‘And which wind is it the minister seeks?’ the Southsider asked, the soap at his neck pinking fast.

  ‘The Foolish Wind.’ The barber drew the blade with added effort, the Southsider gurgling as he drowned in his own warm blood. With the binding broken, Tamulan stepped out onto the cobblestone road, not stopping to check that Griff was following.

  The University stood proud in its gated grounds, an imposing structure of greystone blocks and tall, rooftop turrets. On the centre-most spire, high above the huge front door, a solitary banner unfurled on the wind like an open hand: a white owl set against a royal blue background, symbols of wisdom and loyalty respectively. Oxdon was home to the keenest minds in the land, the near-lands, and the far-lands to-boot, such was its widespread reputation. Soral Jerrals had himself been an Ox, graduating from the Institute of Arcineering—which incidentally had since taken the liberty of borrowing his name. There were students of numbering, healing, artificing, even alchemy, truth be told.

  Brae entered the garden area and felt instantly humbled in the presence of students resplendent in maroon robes and smart, black trousers. Most came from wealthy families and grabbed wilfully at every opportunity privilege brought their way. A small few worked bars and tables to make their tuition fees, but even they stood head and shoulders above the smithy’s apprentice. Brae wished with all his heart that he too would one day go to Oxdon, but knew the nearest he’d ever get was a reading-table in the public library. He crossed the paved square between the two buildings and passed a young couple sat hugging on a wooden bench. They fed each other from a shared bag of hot chestnuts, and as he went by, were completely unaware of his existence.

  ‘Mind where you’re going.’ The voice was harsh and shrill, its owner anything but. The girl was the most strikingly beautiful he’d ever seen—red-hair and skin tones to match. She was sat right in the middle of the bottom step and made no attempt to move as he sought to pass.

  ‘You’re cryin’.’ Brae didn’t know the girl but thought it only right to at least mention he’d noticed.

  She wiped her eyes and composed herself. ‘Not a lot gets past you.’

  Brae ignored the remark. ‘I’m sorry I gave you a fright.’ The girl gripped her abdomen tightly and leaned away from him, inhaling sharply as she screwed her eyes shut. ‘Do you need a healer?’ he asked squatting alongside her. ‘That could be an itis. Read about them, so I have.’

  The girl relaxed, the painful spasm subsiding. ‘You’re not from the city.’ It was more a statement than a question.

  Brae felt himself blush and lowered his eyes. For a moment he’d forgotten their differences, the girl’s predicament temporarily levelling their hierarchal rankings. But no sooner had he dropped his guard than she correctly labelled him an outsider. ‘Brae,’ he said extending a hand in greeting. ‘Do you know of Brindmere?’

  ‘Can’t say that I do.’ The girl shook her head and breathed deeply, drew her knees towards her body and belched loudly.

  He knew the tell-tale signs, had seen the like on the city streets. ‘You’re withdrawin’, so you are.’

  ‘Another book?’ she asked between spasms. ‘You must be a healing student?’

  Brae was tempted to tell her he was, that his father was a city healer and that he would soon tread in the great man’s footsteps. But truth was, Brae didn’t know his father and couldn’t remember ever having met him outside of his recent dreams. ‘I’m a smithy’s apprentice,’ he said and instantly regretted it.

  ‘Good for you.’ She sat more upright and pulled her robe closer. ‘I don’t suppose—’

  ‘No,’ Brae said firmly. ‘Never use the stuff.’

  ‘Didn’t think so, you don’t look the type.’

  ‘Neither do you.’ He patted his pocket and offered an apple. ‘Took it from the farmer’s waggon, so I did.’

  The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Today apples and tomorrow the king’s gold.’

  Brae put the piece of fruit on the step. ‘You might at least try to be polite. How many of that lot passed you by before I stopped?’ He looked around the square, at students who didn’t return a second glance. ‘Maybe we’re not so different after all?’ The girl began to laugh, or cry, he wasn’t sure which. He took the steps two at a time, not slowing even when he reached their summit. He headed towards a large, black door that was furnished with a brass-dragon handle and held the creature’s stare as he approached. ‘You’ll blink first,’ he told it.

  Brae’s senses were bombarded as soon as he entered the library. He breathed the musty odour of ink, paper and bookbinder’s glue—listened to the stifling sound of silence that was interrupted only occassionally by a careless whisper or footfall on the polished marble. Large prisms of colour stood at regular intervals, created by the fragile marriage of sunlight and stained glass. The place was as wide as a battlefield, its aisles ranks of soldiers awaiting the signal to charge. He walked amongst them, examined their finery and found all to be in perfect order.

  Brae approached the returns desk and held a book at arm’s length. When the man sat behind it failed to acknowledge him, he coughed politely. The custodian’s expression moved from one of complete disinterest to that of vague irritation and back again. He coughed once more, this time louder. The custodian looked up suddenly, his eyes lingering rudely. Brae put his hand to his right cheek and the man turned away.

  ‘Name of borrower?’ The custodian opened a ledger that was as green as grapes and thick as his forearm.

  ‘Brae of Brindmere, sir.’

  Elba Doss flicked through a few of the ledger’s gilt-edged pages, stopping to scratch an entry with quill and ink when he found what he was looking for.

  ‘I haven’t damaged it.’

  ‘Then you may choose another.’ Doss waved him away and reclined in a chair that made crunching sounds beneath him like boots on thick snow. The custodian watched the boy walk along an aisle, his devious mind working overtime.

  Tamulan put an arm across Griff’s chest and nodded at the road ahead.

  ‘What am I lookin’ at?’ The innkeeper’s voice was raspy and impatient.

  ‘Blue hair, just passing the pie-cart.’

  Griff saw a man
riding circles on a unicycle—juggling three wooden clubs as he went—and now that he’d caught sight of him, it wasn’t an easy thing to look away. He willed the juggler to fail or fall.

  ‘She’s being followed.’

  Griff mumbled something and saw her, a prune of a woman, all teeth and arthritic hips. She rocked side-to-side as she went, clutching a glass jar tight beneath her elbow, checking over her shoulder as she merged with the crowds.

  The hireling trod the pavement with an eagerness that gave him away instantly, a second man looming large in a doorway just ahead. The dream-keeper tossed a handful of fire-dust at the waiting attacker, the bright flash and loud thwack stalling him long enough for her to put some distance between them. A few of the shoppers stopped and applauded, cheering what they believed to be early celebrations of the Winter’s Day Festival.

  The men regrouped and for a while stood and argued before splitting up and making off down the maze of alleyways that comprised the backstreets of Randor. The pungent odour of cordite snaked its way across the road, willing them to act, urging them to follow.

  Brae leaned against the door frame, eyeing the snoozing student. He tapped the woodwork loud enough to be heard, but the lazy fellow made no attempt to wake and move out of the private reading room. He entered and used the toe of his boot to tap the leg of the chair. The student awoke with a start, stacked his unopened books and left without uttering a word of any kind.

  At the centre of the room was a plain, wooden chair and table, on top of which stood a lamp that resembled a hand-bell in both shape and size. Brae touched its glass case with the back of his hand and found that it hadn’t been used in a long while. Taking an igniter from his trouser pocket he lit the lamp’s wick, rolling the brass thumb-wheel until he was rewarded with the right amount of light. He drew himself upright and watched the flickering flame burn behind glass yellowed by fish-oil residue. Someone passed by the open door. Brae pushed it closed—shielded himself from prying eyes and took the chair to a place below the room’s only window. Its feeble legs wobbled beneath him as he stood on the tips of his toes. He used the wall to steady himself and reached deep into the recess of the windowsill. Something hairy crawled across the back of his hand and had him withdraw and shake it until the appendage threatened to break free of his wrist. He took a breath and reached again, feeling about until his fingers found what they were looking for. He pulled the object to the edge of the sill and let it drop, catching it as it fell.